by John Marrs
“On an island in the Althorp estate where she grew up,” said one. “I went there with my mum when I was a kid.”
Flick shook her head. “No, it was actually . . .” she began, picturing the church where Diana was entombed and not the shallow island in the centre of the lake the public had been told. She cut herself short. That was information others weren’t supposed to know. It was one of the many secrets she was keeping about the royal family, along with the much more explosive truth behind the night of Diana’s death.
Her face flushed. “Sorry, you’re right,” she said. “It was Althorp. I was mixing her up with someone else.”
She bit her bottom lip and sank back into her seat, furious with her carelessness. Then she reminded herself of Karczewski’s warning that the human brain wasn’t infallible, despite the tweaks he had made to hers. “A mistake is likely to occur when you’re relaxed and least likely to expect it,” he’d advised. “You’ll momentarily forget that it’s something that only you know. But it’s what you do in its aftermath that counts. You were chosen because of your ability to adapt, learn from your mistakes, and put things right.”
For the rest of the evening, Flick remained at the table but consciously withdrew from offering suggestions despite knowing the answers to almost every question posed. It would be the last quiz she participated in. “Can I get anyone a drink?” she asked, and took a list of orders to the bar.
As she moved her credit card to the scanner to pay, a flyer attached to a noticeboard advertising for bar staff caught her attention.
“Are you looking for some work?” asked Mick, the portly landlord.
“I’d not really thought about it.”
“You ever worked in a pub?”
“Not since the student union bar at catering college.”
“That’ll do for me. What do you think? A couple of nights a week? See how you get on?”
Flick hesitated. She didn’t need to work. The funds she accessed could purchase his pub and several others in town. However, she couldn’t spend her days wandering around and looking for escape routes indefinitely. “If you’re going to hide, it’s best to do so in plain sight,” Karczewski had advised. “While there are more people to assess, there are more directions to run if you’re cornered.”
What could be more plain sight than one of the town’s pubs? she reasoned.
“Okay,” she replied. “Let’s give it a go.”
Grace appeared from behind her and grinned. “Looks like you’re staying for a while, then.”
“It does,” Flick replied. And she hoped that she wouldn’t live to regret it.
CHAPTER 22
CHARLIE, MANCHESTER
Good morning, One Step Further Personal Mentoring, you’re speaking to Charlie, can I take your username and the first and last lines of your address, please?”
As a woman’s voice answered through his earpiece, Charlie inputted her details into the projected image of a keyboard. Inside his VR headset, a moving avatar she had chosen appeared in real time, surrounded by her account details. Charlie skimmed through brief notes of their previous contact along with advice offered, goals reached, and achievements left. Meanwhile, she was viewing a synthetic version of him.
“It’s nice to see you again, Steph, how can I help you today?” he asked.
“There’s a promotion at work I’d like to apply for,” she began nervously. “But I don’t know if I’m the right person for it.”
“Okay, do you have the necessary qualifications or experience?”
“Yes, I stepped in for my boss for five months when she went on maternity leave.”
“So today is more about finding your confidence to apply for the role and preparing you for your interview performance?” The avatar nodded. “They’re certainly things I can help you work on today.”
Within thirty minutes, Charlie had used his on-site training and experience from the programme to capitalise on his client’s strengths, eliminate her limiting beliefs, and build her morale. It was no mean feat for him, someone who no longer felt anything, let alone empathy for his clients.
Two weeks into his coaching job and Charlie had grown accustomed to spending most of his working day in a world where three-dimensional images and avatars were the norm. While this was a new and expanding sector, it had a shelf life. Everything from the team’s advice to the inflection of their tone was being recorded and studied by Artificial Intelligence’s neural networks with a view to eventually replacing humans altogether.
Removing his headset, he blinked hard to adjust his sight to the daylight of the open-plan office. He estimated there were eighty or so people surrounding him, each in their booths, answering and making prearranged calls to impart their wisdom on a wide range of subjects. He made his way towards a desk across the room and tapped twice on the bridge of Milo’s headset. Milo offered him a thumbs-up, so Charlie made his way towards the canteen. By the time he’d chosen a table and poured two mugs of tea, his colleague had joined him.
“How’s your head?” Charlie began, pushing one towards him.
“Pounding like a jackhammer after last night,” Milo replied. “Yours?”
“Same,” Charlie lied. While out with the football team he’d joined, each vodka and Coke he’d purchased had actually been without the vodka. And he’d surreptitiously poured away those bought for him when no one was looking. “It was a good night, though, thanks for inviting me. Are you having a quiet one tonight?”
“Yeah, deffo, mate.”
On Charlie’s first day of training, Milo had taken him under his wing when he spied the retro Pearl Jam T-shirt Charlie wore. Milo praised him for his good musical taste, but Charlie didn’t want to admit he’d never heard of the band and that it was one of La Maison du Court’s personal shoppers who’d chosen it for him.
The two men worked within the same section and soon slipped into a routine of calling for one another during breaks and lunchtimes. Upstairs in the canteen, they’d sit and chat about football scores and old Marvel movies or take advantage of retro console gaming machines where they’d battle it out in long-forgotten games such as Grand Theft Auto and Call of Duty.
Charlie swiftly had Milo pegged as the gregarious type, and adapted his own personality to form an alliance with him. He used his new friend to replicate the social life he’d once invested so much time in back in Portsmouth. When colleagues came over to chat to Milo, he’d invariably introduce them to Charlie, and within the fortnight, he’d tagged along to a birthday meal and a house party, and had joined a football team. In carving out a new life for himself, he was accomplishing all he had set out to do when he’d said goodbye to the first. At least in theory.
Because in reality, Charlie was struggling. The happiness he was supposed to be experiencing with this group just wasn’t there. It wasn’t their fault; they had done nothing wrong. They were a decent, friendly bunch—in fact, they were far more hospitable than his old friends had been at the end. But Charlie wasn’t experiencing the closeness he’d expected. And it wasn’t because they lacked a shared history. There were simply no feelings of contentment or fulfilment in anything to do with this second life, not just this group of people. There was merely an acceptance of his new circumstances.
He struggled to feel fear, regret, affection, longing, anxiety, or even guilt, and he wondered if his inability to fully connect with others was a temporary blip, and perhaps related to the nulling of his pain receptors. Maybe that procedure alongside the operation to implant coding into his head, plus deep-rooted therapy, analysis, and hypnosis, meant that his brain was overloaded. It needed time to adjust and settle into a new environment.
Or perhaps it was something much simpler—his subconscious wanted to distance itself from the darkness that dominated his latter years. If it wouldn’t allow him to feel, it meant he couldn’t hurt.
Surely thi
s is a positive thing? he reasoned. I’ve wasted so much time smothered by guilt that now that I’m free of it, I should be elated. Shouldn’t I?
Charlie wanted to answer, but he really couldn’t be sure. And he couldn’t muster the effort to care either.
CHAPTER 23
SINÉAD, EDZELL, SCOTLAND
A sheet of yellow paper was taped to the church door with the word Welcome scrawled upon it in a red marker pen. Sinéad pushed the door open and waited until she heard voices coming from a side room.
Week one in Edzell had been devoted to learning about the area and planning escape routes. By week two, Sinéad had checked out of the hotel, stopped camping outdoors, and signed a six-month lease on a former farming cottage. There, she spent time adjusting to living alone and enjoying life’s simple pleasures, such as hiking through the countryside, meditation, reading, and the tai chi she’d practised during training. By week three, she had met some of the village’s 1,586 residents. And having built up her confidence one step at a time, now she was itching to make connections her marriage hadn’t allowed.
Volunteers required, read the note on the Edzell church noticeboard. If you can help with the organising committee for the village fete, the next meeting is on Thursday, 6:45 p.m.
The soles of Sinéad’s trainers squeaked against the parquet flooring as she entered the room, all heads turning to look at the unfamiliar arrival. A group of ten or so men and women of all ages were sitting around tables pushed together in an L-shaped formation. Some had been flicking through papers and folders while others typed on tablets as they discussed how the meeting was to proceed. Sinéad’s cheeks reddened as they eyed her up and down. Her hand moved as if on autopilot towards her eyelashes before she regained control. It stopped at her chest.
“The Pilates class is tomorrow morning, hen,” an elderly man in large-framed glasses began.
“Actually, I’m hoping to volunteer for the fete if you need an extra pair of hands?” Sinéad replied. “I saw the poster.”
“I’m sorry, please, come in and join us. What’s your name?”
Sinéad introduced herself and chose an empty plastic chair as a woman she placed at around two decades older than her became the first to make an introduction. “I’m Doon,” she replied, her handshake as warm as her smile. It immediately put Sinéad at ease. As Doon went around the table pointing to and naming each person, Sinéad quickly assessed them all, as she had been trained to do, making snap decisions on their characters based upon their mannerisms and micro-expressions. It was a good indication of whom she might trust and whom to be wary of.
“I’m not expecting you to remember all our names,” Doon joked, but attention to detail was another by-product of Sinéad’s synaesthesia. When she learned the name of a stranger, she silently repeated it to herself in a singsong tone, and every time she saw them again, it would appear above their head in a bright colour.
“Are you new to the village?” asked Doon.
“Yes, I am,” Sinéad replied, and launched into a rehearsed speech about how she had decided to take a break from the chaos of working in London to escape about as far away as geographically possible.
“Why Edzell?” asked a man who’d been introduced to her as Anthony. His tone was friendly, but his cluster of gestures suggested something different. His foot tapped against the leg of his chair, his nose wrinkled, and his cheeks rose ever so slightly when he spoke. They added up to an undercurrent of animosity towards her.
“It’s a beautiful location,” she replied. “When I drove under that stone archway at the village’s entrance, there was something about it that made me want to stay here. London was fantastic, but it takes it out of you.” Sinéad didn’t want to admit she’d chosen Edzell by randomly jabbing a finger inside a map of Scotland and settling on the northeast.
“We’ve seen a lot of people like you,” he said. “People who’ve made a tidy profit down there, then turned up here with deep pockets, buying up prime property and edging locals out of the housing market. Not everybody appreciates a tourist.”
“I thought that as the owner of a restaurant you might welcome the tourist trade?” Sinéad asked. She had spotted him yesterday removing cash-and-carry bags from the boot of his car and taking them into Edzell Tavern. His licensee name was on a brass plaque above the door.
“She’s got you there,” interrupted Doon. “And if she didn’t want to be a part of the community, then she wouldn’t be here now, would she?”
“I’m just pulling the lass’s leg,” Anthony replied. Sinéad’s response was a smile as disingenuous as his.
By the end of the meeting, Sinéad had been tasked with applying to the local council for the fete’s foods, drinks, and entertainment licences. Doon approached her outside in the church grounds.
“I hope Anthony didn’t put you off us?” she asked.
“No, I’ve met men like him before.” Daniel came to mind. “They’re usually compensating for something they’re lacking.”
“You’re probably right there. Where are you staying?”
“I didn’t want to give Anthony the satisfaction of being proven right, but I’m actually in a rental property in Mulberry Avenue, and I don’t think the owners are locals.”
Doon laughed. “Yes, it’s probably best you keep that quiet. Look, I’m having a few of the girls around tonight for a movie-and-wine evening. If you have nothing better to do, you’re more than welcome to join us.”
“If you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding, I’d love to, thank you.”
By nine p.m., Sinéad was sitting cross-legged on Doon’s lounge floor, a glass of alcohol-free white wine in her hand, and sharing a bowl of kale crisps with Gail, a woman around the same age as her. Gail’s flawless pale skin made her dark red hair even more striking. They were the only two of the dozen women present not to be in tears at the movie.
“How have I never seen Love Actually before?” Sinéad asked when the closing credits appeared.
“You can only have been a wee thing when it came out,” Doon replied.
“This is why we love your classic film club . . . and for the wine,” another woman added.
“It’s always for the wine,” said Gail, laughing but retaining a straight face as she climbed to her feet. “Would you like a top-up?”
“Yes, please. Let me give you a hand.” Sinéad followed her into the kitchen.
“How come you’re on the nonalcoholic stuff?” asked Gail.
“Antibiotics for a gum abscess. What about you?”
“I’m breastfeeding.”
A shiver ran up Sinéad’s spine, a relic of the past. Sinéad thought she heard a hint of reluctance in Gail’s tone. “Oh, how wonderful. Boy or girl?”
“Taylor, she’s five months old. She’s asleep upstairs. Do you have kids?”
Sinéad shook her head. “What did you do workwise before she was born?”
“I restored old furniture. I’d buy knackered old dressers, tables, wardrobes, et cetera from online auction sites, bring them back to life, and sell them on. But babies are such a time drain, aren’t they? Since having Taylor, I have so little of it that I’ve got a backlog of projects in the garage.”
“Well, if you need an extra pair of hands, my dad was a French polisher and I’m a dab hand with chalk paint and sandpaper.”
A knock on the front door interrupted them. Doon answered it, then appeared in the kitchen. “Gail,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “He’s here.”
Gail’s face hardened. She gave an apologetic glance as she made her way upstairs to collect her daughter. Only then did Sinéad notice Anthony waiting in the hallway, a pushchair parked behind him. He was as surprised to see her as she was to see him. She felt the temperature between them drop.
“Nice to see you again,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Likewise.”
<
br /> “Taylor hasn’t been upstairs the whole night alone, has she?” he asked when mother and child appeared.
“Don’t worry, we’ve all been checking up on her,” Doon interjected.
“I doubt she’s had much sleep then, if you’ve all been waking her up,” he muttered, and strapped her into the pushchair. “That’s a great night we have ahead of us, then.”
He glared at a red-faced Gail, who gave a half wave to everyone as Anthony left first. She turned to thank Doon. “And I’ll take you up on the offer of help, if you’re serious?” she asked Sinéad.
“Gail?” Anthony beckoned, now at the end of the path with his daughter. “Will you be joining us?”
She mouthed Sorry before closing the door.
“I wouldn’t have put them together either,” Doon said diplomatically, as if reading her mind. “But there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”
Sinéad wanted to ask more but held back. Instead, she placed the wine bottle back inside the fridge. A framed photograph on the wall caught her attention. It was of Doon with a younger woman who shared the same-shaped mouth and steely blue eyes. Sinéad’s heart raced—she instantly recognised her but stopped short of saying as much.
“Is this your daughter?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“Isla,” Doon replied, her voice quietening.
Sinéad knew she should change the subject. However, she pressed on, albeit carefully. “Does she still live in town?”
“No, she passed away eight years ago.”
“How awful. What happened?” Sinéad picked up on Doon’s hesitation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s okay. She was at university in London studying for her finals when the stress became too much and . . . she took her own life.”
“Oh, Doon.”
“She took an overdose of her depression medication. She’d suffered from it for years, but her dad and I thought it was under control. It’s hard losing a child in any circumstances, but when they want to go before their time . . . the pain is that little bit sharper. And as a parent, it’s a guilt you have to learn to live with . . .” She stopped herself. “Sorry, it’s the wine talking. You don’t want to hear all this.”
